The Boy in Blue
by Crutcherella Wormwood
Summary: When the newcomer to the Manhattan Lodging House quickly becomes the talk of the town, Crutchie is left with just one thing on my mind: Who exactly IS this Jack Kelly? He finds the only answer he needs late one night, after someone left the window open past curfew... Fluffy Jack/Crutchie BroTP origin oneshot that accidentally came out sounding hella gay.


Crutchie didn't know much of the boy in blue for a start. He tentatively had introduced himself as Jack. That was a start. He had arrived at the World circulation center just a week ago, and he had only slept over at the Lodging House three consecutive nights since his appearance. He never talked about where he came from or how he got there. He didn't ask many questions, nor did he ever seem to be in the mood to answer any. Sometimes he was loud and outgoing, but he could be equally content with remaining silent, too, staring into space and just pondering, connecting, thinking things through. He was a deep thinker, though Crutchie could tell he didn't want it to show too much. His caramel eyes tended to flicker with both a vibrance of puerile mischief and perhaps a hint of the weariness of a boy forced to grow up much too soon. His jaw often clenched in a crooked sort of way, and his hands, licked with newspaper ink and the occasional smear of a pen, liked to burrow themselves in his front pockets until needed.

Okay, so Crutchie had plenty of knowledge of the boy, even from nothing more than observation. What he didn't have was an understanding of the boy. How could someone so self-assured have hints of anxiety? How did he adapt to the Manhattan boys so quickly? What exactly went on in that head of his?

Twelve-year-old Crutchie Morris's initiation had only preceded the boy in blue's by three seasons or so, and he knew the other members of the gang like the freckles on his arm. Though the new arrival fit in immediately, always in the center of the crowd like a kid with a shiny new toy, he was not one of them. He was cool, he was mellow, he was humorous, and he had his own city fishing stories of robberies and escapes assumed to be rubbish but impressive to think of still. But he was just... Different.

It was late one night in the Newsboys Lodging House when the light sleeper heard the metallic clink of a window latch flying open.

Crutchie, barely covered in a stiff, cotton sheet in his lower bunk bed, rolled over with a slight squeak of the mattress. His eyes peeled open and blinked over to the window at the end of the aisle of bunks. The silver moonlight dripped in through a crack in the sheer curtains and spilled to the floor, casting a forest of shadows across the dull wooden paneling. A gentle draft snaked in through the opening in the glass, drifting through the labyrinth of beds and mismatching furniture. Soft, scratch-like whispers beckoned him from the fire escape outside.

It was probably stupid old Elmer out there, Crutchie realized. He sometimes had rough nights sleeping, tossing and turning and waking himself up with his own obnoxious snoring.

Wrapping his sheet around his shoulders and gripping it at the middle of his chest like a cloak, the boy wobbled to sitting up and groped for his crutch, which laid below his cot. After some kicking around, it finally fumbled into his hand, and he was slowly creeping across the wooden boards of the bedroom.

"Elmer," Crutchie whisper-called as he saw hints of a silhouette out on the balcony. "Get back in 'ere, it's late."

He heard no reply as he continued approaching.

"You ain't foolin' no one, it's jus' me," Crutchie quietly assured the figure. "I know you..."

He faltered as he stood right before the window, the night air stroking his face. The silhouette in the crooked shadow of the stairs above wasn't Elmer's. It was more slender. It sat on the fourth or so stair, hunched over something, gaze set in a focused yet relaxed manner.

Crutchie's hands idly gripped the bottom of the frame. The city lights below gave evidence of the boy's identity and of the object he held in his lap. It was a leather-backed journal that spread far over his knees. His weapon of choice, an old graphite pencil whittled down to barely three inches, was clenched tight in his hand. Even the tensed veins controlling his grip showed in the shy moonlight. The details drawing were not clear as of yet, but there was something strangely beautiful about the way it was being conceived. The boy in blue made every intricate stroke with intention, from where it began to where it ended, from how hard to strike the page to how gingerly to let the pencil glide like a petite skater on thin ice.

Somewhat in a state of surprise yet silently, Crutchie watched as he leaned his entire weight against the windowsill, entranced in the fluidity of the point against the paper and the way that the boy determinedly set his jaw and yet still held a sentimental smile in his eyes, as if welcoming back an old friend.

It was soothing - the simple whistle of the midnight breeze, cut only by the occasional scratch of an artist's hand against smooth yellowed paper. It was truly hypnotic.

The boy in blue soon heard a soft snort beside him and flinched back, turning to see what intruder had discovered him in his new alcove of solitude. He grabbed his journal to his chest and foolishly raised his pencil by impulse, as if he were to doodle someone to death.

But when he swiveled around he saw only the loose-legged boy he had seen many times in the past week, dozed off with his arms through the window not two feet away from him.

"Crutchie," he whispered.

Crutchie popped right back up like a puppet on taught strings, eyes wide. After they adjusted, nerves overcame him, though the other boy didn't necessarily seem cross. "I'm sorry, I, uh... I was jus'... I jus' really liked watchin' you draw. It's fine, I should probably jus' be goin' back to bed anyhow if you wanna be alo-"

"It's okay," the boy in blue replied. An attempt at a grin crept onto his face, but then it fell with a new thought. He leaned closer. "You, uh... You were jus' watchin' me sketch?"

Crutchie hesitantly nodded, worriedly searching the boy's face for any signs of hostility.

"You think I'm nuts," he assumed. "Don't ya? Some loony sap with a pen?"

Crutchie quickly shook his head. "Oh, no, of course not. The picture was real good. Please don't stop."

The boy in blue picked back up one corner of his smile.

"You're free ta join me, if you'd like. And, ah," The other corner of his mouth joined in. "You're free ta call me Jack."

And soon, Crutchie was through the window, sitting right beside Jack Kelly on the floor of the fire escape, drooping eyes glued to the artist's miniature canvas.

"What is it, anyway?" He mumbled, getting drowsier with each passing cricket song.

"A landscape," Jack replied as he curled the pencil into another hill. "I dunno of what quite yet. 'Cuz, well, the city's all I've ever known. Very well, I mean. My folks..."

He let out a light sigh as he began shading a corner in.

"They went everywhere and anywhere." His voice was soft and slow, but his words felt like they had weight in his own life. "Arizona. California. New Mexico. It's a whole different life out there. An' sometimes I catch myself dreamin'. About what kinda different I want. What I wanna change about this town. Or," he decided, "How I wanna change myself. Or maybe even how I would have fancied to change my past."

"I can name more than a few times that I've thought about that," Crutchie reflected, glancing back up at Jack for a second before returning his attention to the paper. "How things woulda been if I'd never 'ad to run to this old place."

"That's a place to start." Jack leaned back on the rails a bit more, talking care in each individual shape in front of him.

"How things woulda come out different," Crutchie continued, squinting a bit at the thought. "If the doc jus' said I had a flu."

Jack exhaled deeply and paused for a moment before responding. "You may 'ave gotten a short stick in life, but so did I, even if I don't wear it on my sleeve. You're pullin' through, though. You an' me? We's gonna turn out jus' fine."

Crutchie nodded the tiniest bit in understanding and newfound respect, letting his eyes close once again as he listened to the balanced scratching of back and forth against the paper.

"You can call the dreamer a fool, but they make good company," Jack continued. "Sometimes bein' a dreamer's the only thing keepin' ya from a straight jacket after so long in this concrete country. I think you could be one too, if you opened your mind enough. You notice the little things, I guess. That's the first step to lookin' at the big picture."

The clouds smudged a bit crookedly on the western sky. Jack brushed them with under his thumb with a critical furrow in his brow when he felt Crutchie's head gently fall against his shoulder. He barely had to glance over to realize the boy had drifted off to sleep.

"I like ya, Kid," he whispered. "I liked ya from day one."

Silence followed. Jack dropped his hand from the page, taking on the fatigue himself.

"Crutchie?"

Crutchie unconsciously muttered something along the lines of an "Uh huh?"

Jack smiled and carefully lassoed an arm around the boy in tan's shoulders and tilted his head back onto his.

"I think we's gonna be good friends."


End file.
